Chapter 6
Brian
I knew the minute I walked into The Grind two days ago when I first came here with Lexi that this is definitely the type of place she would love working at. I didn’t get a chance then to do much more than give the decor a cursory glance, but upon closer inspection today, I get a much better sense that the coffee shop is funky and eclectic, just like Lexi—two things that I am not. This is especially obvious tonight as I’m still clad in a designer suit I’d worn into work today along with a ridiculously expensive wool coat that was custom made for me. The weather had turned downright frigid and overcast this afternoon, and snow and ice are forecasted for next week, a phenomenon that happens usually once a year in this area of the south. It usually paralyzes most of the residents who don’t quite know how to handle such a very “northern” thing.
It’s warm and cozy inside, so I immediately shed my coat, draping it over one arm as I take some more time to look around the place. The interior walls are original brick that’s a deep red, the ceiling is nonexistent but the duct and pipe work is painted black, and the floor looks like some type of clear lacquer poured over small river rocks of various colors from taupes, to grays, to various shades of black. This is the only design I can see that holds the place together, because past that, it’s a weird hodgepodge of chairs, couches, tables, beanbag chairs, and even a hammock in one corner currently occupied by a patron who’s holding a drink with a straw, taking lazy sips while he reads a book.
While bright pendant lights hang over the area where you order coffee, the rest of the interior is lit by various lamps of different designs, creating an inviting and cozy glow about the place.
The golden velour-covered couch in a Victorian design looks completely awkward next to a contemporary red leather chair in the shape of an egg. Various rugs are scattered about, some with pink and orange neon geometric designs, others looking like they came straight out of The Arabian Nights in muted reds and blues. There’s even a large bearskin rug in front of a fireplace, also rimmed in red brick, and flanked by two olive-green deep and mushy-looking chairs with matching ottomans.
Everywhere I look, every piece of furniture I gaze at looks completely out of place next to the item it sits beside, yet when I sweep my gaze across the interior as a whole, it just fits together.
Sort of like Lexi.
“Excuse me,” I hear from behind me and I realize I was blocking the door. I move to the side and smile apologetically to the patron as he passes by me to head to the register, which is flanked by bakery cases on each side. I take the opportunity to peruse the menu handwritten on a chalkboard that takes up the entire wall and order a cup of black tea and a raspberry scone from the young girl behind the register. I make a mental note to add an extra ten miles to my cycling workout tomorrow morning to compensate.
After I place my order I step off to the side and casually lean up against the counter and look around for Lexi. I told her I’d come by tonight to hear her perform, and I’m buzzing with nervous energy. This daughter of mine is a musician, I’ve learned, and I find the feelings of parental anxiety when your child performs still reign supreme. It reminds me of how I would feel before Gray would take to the ice when she was playing hockey, or even when she took over as general manager last year. All parents want their children to succeed and be happy in their pursuits.
Interestingly, it’s a feeling that’s come quite naturally, which is further proof in my mind that she’s my daughter.
“Hey, you,” I hear from behind me at the same time someone nudges me in my ribs. I turn to the side to see Lexi standing there, wearing the same outfit she had on earlier when she met Gray. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” I chide her. “You said you were playing at seven, so here I am…fashionably early by fifteen minutes.”
“Brannon,” a young guy calls out, and I turn back to the service counter. My tea is there, along with my scone.
I reach into my back pocket, fish out my wallet, and put a five in the tip jar.
“Thanks, dude,” the guy says, and I nod. Totally not professional to call a customer dude, but not my place to say anything.
I take my teacup, resting on a saucer, and Lexi grabs the plate holding my scone.
“Come on,” she says as she turns away from me. “I’ll set you up near the stage.”
I follow her as we weave our way in and out of the scattered furniture to the far corner of the coffee shop where a small stage is set up. Really no more than a wooden platform approximately six feet by six feet, and clearly designed to hold only a single performer and not a band. Lexi had told me the owner of the shop has various artists who perform, not only music but sometimes slam poetry or even local authors who read from their books.
A wrought-iron pub table with a battered wooden top sits to the right of the stage, along with three tall stools that don’t even come close to matching. Lexi places the scone on the table and pulls out a stool that faces the stage. I set my cup and saucer down, and given my height, I’m easily able to take my seat while my feet stay planted on the floor.
“I’ve got to go in the back and make sure I’m tuned up,” Lexi says excitedly. “I’m really glad you came.”
“Sounds good,” I tell her as I lift the tea bag from the steaming water to dunk it a few times. “We’ll talk after the show.”
She gives me a bright smile and then hurries off.
I settle in to enjoy my tea and scone, but I’m startled when the stool beside me scrapes along the lacquered floor and a tiny woman is hopping up onto it, dressed in a long black, red, and gold dress that’s cut deep in the front and cinched tight around her waist with a thick, shiny black belt. I blink in surprise at her sitting there beaming a welcoming smile my way.
“Lexi told me you were coming,” she says, her southern accent thick and tart-sounding, but definitely not hickish.
“Excuse me?” I say as I look at her.
She reaches a hand out to me, each finger adorned with rings, and manners dictate I shake it. The multitude of silver bangles on her wrist jangle as we do so, and she formally introduces herself. “I’m Georgia Mack, and I assume you must be Lexi’s father, Brian Brannon.”
I immediately recognize the name, as I’ve learned a lot about Lexi these past few days, which included her raving about her boss and somewhat of a surrogate mother who owns this shop. In addition, Lexi rents a small apartment above Georgia’s garage, so she’s also her landlord. Lexi confided in me that she had told Georgia that I was her father, but she’s the only person she’s told.
“Ah,” I say in understanding as I smile at her. “Lexi’s boss and owner of this very unique establishment.”
“That I am,” she says as she levels a hard stare at me. “And you look totally out of place here. This is so not your scene, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone appear more awkward before.”
My entire body tightens at what I’m pretty sure was a well-placed insult, but for the life of me I can’t understand why it was lodged. Granted, my status as the CEO of a professional sports team grants me luxuries and privileges that greet me wherever I go, but never once have I been told that I don’t belong somewhere. Especially not in a retail establishment that is dependent upon customer service.
Particularly not by a sprite of a woman with amazing long and curly blond hair and the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and why in the world am I even focusing on those things?
With a stiff spine, I level a hard stare back at her, not in the slightest taken in by her beauty—or so I tell myself. I sit up straighter on my stool and pull forth all of my executive prowess before I tell her, “Is it your business, Mrs. Mack—”
“Miss Mack,” she says with an exaggerated twang.
“Miss Mack,” I acknowledge. “Is it your business to insult your customers? I can’t say as I’m surprised, as one of your employees called me dude a little bit ago.”
The woman sitting beside me doesn’t acknowledge that she’s insulted me or that she has a rude employee, but merely nods her head wisely. “That’s Tink.”
“Who’s Tink?” I ask, confused.
“The guy behind the counter,” she explains. “He’s not much on manners, but he makes a fantastic cup of coffee. He got out of prison about three months ago and was having a hard time landing a job.”
“Prison?” I ask, totally stunned she has a felon working here.
With my daughter.
She nods and says gravely, “Murder. Just went nuts one day and slaughtered his entire family.”
“What?” I say as I stand and look wildly behind me for the kid behind the counter who served my tea. He’s nowhere to be seen, and my imagination kicks into overdrive. What if he’s in back with Lexi?
“Relax,” Miss Mack says to me as she lays a hand on my arm, and my head snaps to her. “I’m just kidding. Although he did murder a squirrel once.”
“A squirrel?” I say weakly as I sink back onto the stool.
With a nod, she winks and leans in. “He was driving after having a few beers one night, a definite no-no in my book, and a squirrel darted out in front of him. You see, Tink loves animals and he jerked the wheel hard to avoid hitting it, all to no avail. The squirrel got flattened and Tink ran off the road, took out two mailboxes, and mowed down a crape myrtle tree. He lost his license for driving while impaired and I think spent the night in jail. But the point being, I’ll talk to Tink and ask him to have a little more respect toward the customers. He tries hard, honestly, and just needs some guidance.”
My mouth is hanging open as I listen to her story, and I can’t tell if she’s still pulling my leg. All I can do is mutter, “I think that would be good.”
I reach out and take my cup of tea, bring it to my lips, and blow on it a second before I taste it. It’s delicious and I take another sip before setting it down. My eyes slide over to Georgia Mack, still sitting there, and still watching me with an amused smile on her face.
“Is there something else you wanted?” I ask cautiously, careful not to offend Lexi’s boss but also feeling oddly unsettled by her presence.
“Just waiting to see if that stick up your butt got jostled loose by my story about Tink,” she offers with a shrug. “I’m thinking not.”
“Stick up my butt?” I ask dumbly, even as I sit straighter on my stool, which probably only verifies her perception of me.
“You need to relax, Brian,” she coos at me, reaching a hand out sparkling with rings and placing it on my shoulder. It’s light but warm, and she gives me a squeeze. “Your daughter has quite an electric personality, one I’m sure you’ll start to realize can be downright off-putting at times, sort of like me. I’m sure Lexi’s dialed it back a notch, you know, being nervous to meet you and all, but you’re going to have to loosen up a bit if you want to have a relationship with her. That girl is balls to the wall, if you know what I mean.”
I can’t help it. My nose actually wrinkles slightly over her “balls to the wall” comment, which is not a term I’d like to hear used to describe my daughter. Of course, Georgia takes note of my expression and throws her head back in a deep laugh, which much to my consternation causes the gap in her dress to separate and reveal more of her cleavage to me. The consternation is because my eyes are helplessly drawn there and held fascinated by the roundness of her breasts and the fact that she has freckles splattered across her chest.
When my eyes drag upward, I find her staring at me with that same amused smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. I glare at her and pick my tea up to take another sip.
“Total stick up your butt,” she says as she pushes off the stool and hops to the ground. I see she can’t be much taller than five feet, which means I’d tower over her if I were standing.
“But here’s a suggestion,” she continues as I hold her gaze. “Maybe next time you come in, lose the fancy duds. There’s no one to impress here, certainly not Lexi, who likes you for you. And try not to read too much into it when people say words like dude and balls. We’re all sort of just casual around here, okay?”
I don’t reply but simply stare at her.
“Okay?” she repeats, and I’m irritated that her southern drawl now sounds as sweet as sugar cookies, and Christ…I kind of like it.
“Okay,” I mutter as I nod at her. “Point taken.”
“Excellent,” she says as she grins at me. “Now, Lexi will be on in a few minutes, and I’ve got some paperwork to handle in my office. Enjoy your evening, Brian.”
“Thank you,” I reply softly, not knowing if I like this woman or despise her, but really not caring. I doubt I’ll ever see her again, because it’s not like I’m going to hang out here.
Georgia starts to turn away, but then immediately pivots back toward me. She leans in and nudges her arm into my side, tilts her head my way, and whispers, “And Lexi didn’t tell me her father was so hot. I’m going to have to ream her a new one for that.”
I barely get to register the fragrance of her perfume, which is subtle and light—maybe jasmine—before she spins away and is gone. I blink several times, watching her as she retreats to her office, and ponder what she just said to me.
She called me hot.
I don’t think I’ve ever been called that in my life. I mean, I’m almost sixty-one years old, and while I’m confident enough to think I look much younger than that, it’s not something that’s ever really mattered to me before. I take great care of myself. I cycle thirty miles at least four times a week, and I lift weights. You could put my body up there with many men half my age, and I’d hold my own for sure. But I don’t do that to gain notice by others. I do it to keep myself healthy and in shape.
Hot?
Seriously, that’s so ludicrous I could almost laugh if I could just forget that damn cleavage staring me in the face.
Christ almighty, Brannon. Do not go there. That woman can’t be more than forty and is far too young for you.
Besides, that…I’m far too set in my ways to even consider dating a younger woman.
I turn back to my tea and take another sip as I eyeball the scone staring at me. My vanity tells me to ignore it, because Miss Georgia Mack said I was hot, but then common sense prevails and I pick it up.
I’ve got nothing to prove to her or to anyone, and I certainly don’t care what she thinks of me. I take a bite, hold back a moan of satisfaction, because it may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and resolve that if I come back here—and that’s a big if—I’ll make sure to wear casual clothes.